


Pete, You Goof

by stripped-down-to-skeletons (and_the_devil_laughs)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bandom - Freeform, Fluff, Peterick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_the_devil_laughs/pseuds/stripped-down-to-skeletons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is making Patrick a surprise treat and ends up injuring himself, and Patrick plays nurse (nonsexy way, I assure you). Peterick if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pete, You Goof

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on tumblr and have imported it to share with archive! Opinions?

  
“Okay, so, now, I don’t want you to do anything that’ll make me regret telling you this,” Pete said, a crappy radio-static voice through Patrick’s end of the phone call that was a bit hard to hear. But, he heard it perfectly despite the shit quality, and these being the first words for Pete to say when he picked up immediately made him straighten his posture, sitting up in the middle of his recordings and holding the phone a bit tighter. Really, what could that idiot have done to make him swear away that he wouldn’t react, whatever that means?

   “Wait, what? I can’t just —”

   “Come on, Pat, give me the green light on this or you I’ll just hang—”

  Pete was already talking, impatient and probably on his way to hanging up, and Patrick had no choice as far as he was concerned so he was already rapidly nodding and saying, “yes, yes, I – I promise. I swear on your mom that I won’t do anything.”

  “Okay.”

   “Okay? What does that mean?”

   “Okay means, okay, I’m pretty sure you’ve put away your guitar.”

   “So?” This was actually quite accurate. They were traveling on the start of the tour, crossing the largest venues in North America, and had settled down in one of their more low-key settings, a place not unlike a bar, but with more rave and mosh room, with some high end sound systems in the back. All of the settings were reading for their night, and Patrick had found himself in the company of only himself, which meant a lot of time to mess around with his acoustic. He had, however, immediately abandoned his guitar, standing and navigating the crates and chords that were scattered, stepping away from it all to wander about aimlessly (something he enjoyed doing when on the phone).

   “Well, whatever, that’s good, because I was about to tell you to get your cute face down to the van.”

   Patrick was about to say something, but there was a hiss on the end not attached to his ear, and the phone dropped onto (presumably) tile, a grainy echo of something metal flailing into something just as hard.

   “… Pete?”

   A second of silence followed on both ends.

   Patrick’s heart did a strange feeling, and a familiar but far more fearful weight of nerves filled his belly. “Pete?” a little more strained, and he was already out the door and down the ill-lit hall way.

   A loud curse filled the receiver and Patrick flinched at the “Motherfucking fuck. Fuck.”

   “Pete? What the fuck is —”

   “Okay, okay, okay, so still promise me you still wont act rash, okay?”

   “Jesus fuck, I’m on my way, don’t bother,” Patrick breathed, exasperated and with his heart quieting the sharp tattoo rhythm it had taken up seconds before. He’d bailed Pete out of too many situations, helped him when he fucked up – was fucked up, not in his right mind, sad or upset or anything else dangerously amiss. His heart always pricked like this, sharp and to the point and he was really grateful that Pete wasn’t going to fight him on this, because his next words were very level-headed and not fueled by pride.

   “Thank god, Trick. Just, you know, bring – ouch – your appetite,” and then, in the distance, away from the mic, a gritted, “Jesus fucking Mary, pain and no gain. Go figure.”

   The van was parked two blocks away, and Patrick abandoned his call, running down and around the bar, ignoring the eyes of customers and fans (I mean, he was running fast so they didn’t give him much of a reaction), stepping out into the pavement littered with varieties of smokes and fliers, chilled air filling his lungs and it stung a bit but before that really mattered, he was half way down the street to the run-down parking lot that has seen way too many Campers and vans for its own good. The lights were turning on and the sky was pinkish and he didn’t notice anymore beyond that because he was at the door of Pete’s van.

   He knocked while entering. “Pete? Come here boy.”

   “Fuck you too,” answered him from the left, where his quote-unquote “living room” was, sitting wide-legged and hunched over on his sectional, pressing a bag of something onto his bare arm and haphazardly balancing a bunch of cookies – brownies? Cookies? – on a plate on the side table.

   Patrick looked to him, shutting the door and carefully making sure he wasn’t smiling or eying anything with expectation or any of those things that normally meant that there was a prank looming on the horizon (and normally aimed at him with complete accuracy). He wasn’t though, which was apparent in his flinching when that pack of whatever-it-is shifted icily, and a slight flush on his cheeks that wasn’t quite apparent on his skin tone, but evident enough to notice.

   “So, long story short, I made you brownies. They sort of, you know, taste like floor, but I recall, on several occasions, that you acknowledge that it’s the thought that counts and not the content of the—”

   “I swear, I never said anything like that, but,” Patrick took a seat beside Pete, smacking his leg (checking to make sure that it was uninjured), forcing Pete to make some damn room for him. He took his Pete’s hand, the one nursing the now visible bag of frozen tater tots. “Essentially, yeah, it’s the thought that counts. Are… are you burned?”

   Pete stubbornly anchored his hand to the frozen goods (which where turning into a strange substance not unlike a gel, within the white plastic wrappings). He raised his eyebrows, slightly fucked up his expression like you would to mock someone, and huffed an exaggerated breath of air out the side of his mouth. “Pssh. No, I didn’t burn myself, making your food, with your brownie mix. Nope.”

   Patrick looked at the brownies, sort of straight on and sort like you would if you were in the Office. “Just. Wait. Those are my mix. But. Why?” He settled on, and Pete grinned.

   “I mean those are mine and you’re making mine. Why mine, I’ve had that —”

   “What you mean to say is that they’re yours and – ow, watch it, okay? It’s not that bad—” Patrick tugged on the bag, and it seemed to have caused enough empathy (or pain) from Pete that he could finally take a look under it.

   “Oh, god damn it, Pete.” Patrick always sounds like a mom, worrying and fussing and trying to make sure people are orderly and happy, but now he was more along the tone of I swear to god young mister I will take away your toys if you can’t play with them appropriately. The burns were bad. Not enough to warrant a special visit to the clinic but enough that it hurt to flex his forearm. A straight bar of red, raised flesh crossed semi-diagonally across Pete’s upper right forearm, not exactly blistering but also entirely not in the normal state flesh usually takes. Pete was smiling, but in a way that made him look a little uncomfortable.

   “Yeah, okay, so it’s your fault.”

   “Fuck you, how is this my fault?” Patrick pulled his arm across his lap, tilting it a bit to examine the length of the sears, the height of its raised edges against his honey skin.

   “If you had telepathically answered my signals asking you to get your butt down here –” Patrick was smiling a bit by now, “–I sure as hell wouldn’t have been balancing the phone on my shoulder. See, all your fault.”

   “Excuse me for not checking my voice mail, I was a bit busy. Just… stay here, and pray that you still have a first aid kit on board, okay?” Pete nods and Patrick takes that as a green light to gently set Pete’s arm on a pillow.

   Patrick was disturbed at how damn clean the place was, but that was a conversation for a different day, a different time, when he didn’t need to heal their bassist back to health before the show. He was a hero, in some regards, when he found the small kit in the small bathroom. He returned and Pete was eating another floor-treat.

   “I’ve been waiting, lover,” he said, and the only thing that betrayed the joke was the laughter in his voice that some how made it past his – what he liked to call – seductive eyes. Eyebrows and all, and a laugh to his voice, Patrick opened the kit and sat with Pete’s arm on his thighs.

   “Not for too long,” he said quietly. He had ointment on hand, and he didn’t have any brush or device on hand so he settled on spreading it with his fingertips.

   “Also, I think you should know, that this is pretty old batter,” Pet flopped his head in the general vicinity of the brownies. “Not that it’s horrible, just that, well, it ain’t good.”

   “Sweet Jesus, Pete, stop talking.”

   And he did. And Patrick rubbed circles into his flesh, with both hands, and feeling a lot closer to him when he realized that they were now sitting hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder, and it was beyond time to find occupation in doing something else besides rubbing the pain out of Pete. Patrick grabbed the gauze and found himself a comfortable position to wrap his arm. Patrick and his odd hobbies led him to being quite strangely adept at odd tasks, and that week that Patrick took on learning first aid and medical none-sense made his wrap especially comfortable and exceedingly proficient in staying on.

   Patrick, if not out of sheer sympathy and appreciation, reached out and took a brownie, making a show of smelling it before finally taking a bite.

   “Don’t lie to me and say it’s bad,” Patrick smiled, voice soft and quiet. “This is really good, man.”

   “Thanks.”

    Pete really like to take care of him, as Patrick did Pete, and their relationship was basically a small mary-go-round of love and it was sickeningly cute. Not that they’d have it any other way, but it was still pretty intimate at times, like this time, where they both seemed to catch each others eye, and knew – that strange telepathy Pete was talking about – that they should probably clear out the pillows and lay down beside each other.

   “We have time till show and I’m pretty tired,” Patrick said.

   “Yeah, me too – exorcising my arm really took it out of me.

   Pete, by default (and preference, because Patrick liked it like this) was always big-spoon. He laid his injured arm over Patrick and pressed his lips to his neck.

  “I worry about you.” Patrick always had an easier time talking, saying important and personal things, when he wasn’t being watched (which, he was, just not directly). “I thought something was wrong,” he went on. “I was really happy that – well, not that I was happy, not that you, uh, hurting your arm, was good, but you weren’t hurt. Or upset. Or…. Sad. I don’t know. I just love you a lot.”

   Pete kissed his neck, letting out a small breath across his ear, and Pete loved making Patrick shiver (as much as Patrick did, in fact.) “Sorry I’m such a fuckup.”

   “Hey.”

   “It’s true, Trick.”

   “Whatever you think, that sure as hell isn’t true,” and he took hold of Pete’s strong and calloused hands, spreading an odd finger here and there and sloppily lacing them. “You’re an idiot and you’re my idiot and you can fuck up and god knows you’ve done it before, but I, well, you’re not a fuckup.”

   Patrick felt the smile on Pete’s lips and pressed back into him, trying to get closer. “Personal opinions out of the way,” and he wraps their legs together so that, if they were in a three legged race, they’d be disqualified for essentially having two legs. That close. “I really miss this. We should get a bus together again.”

   “Hotel rooms?”

   Pete hummed. “Anything for you, sweetie.”

   “Hmmph.”

   “I’ll make us crappy ramen.”

   “I think we should just, ya know, order food – lets not risk your life on ramen or stuff like that.”  
   “Hey, next time I won’t be physically calling you. Answer your damn brain next time I telepathically ring you up.”

   “Noted.”

   “By the way, what the hell us up with you keeping food in your place but neglecting the poor things for months? If you didn’t want me making them then you should have made them yourself.”

   “Oh, excuse me, didn’t mean to make you break into my van and mix all those ingredients together, what was I thinking?”

  “You weren’t.”

   “Oh my god, let’s just nap, okay?”

   Pete laughed for a few minutes, and then died down as his energy levels dropped.

   It was really easy to tire when you’re so warm and comfortable, and Patrick didn’t know if it was exhaust from being on the road or just the comfort of having Pete on him that made it so easy to nod off.

   They woke up roughly an hour later at the incessant banging on the windows, and although rushed, they got at it, refreshed and ready to take on the show. Pete pat Patrick on the back. “Lets go get this.”


End file.
